


How Long Will the Night Take, Feels like Heartache

by oppressa



Category: The Killing
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, POV Male Character, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppressa/pseuds/oppressa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at Holder getting clean, pre-Linden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Long Will the Night Take, Feels like Heartache

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really about NA, which is something I don't have any experience or much knowledge of. I mean some people approach these issues so well and sensitively in fic, and I'm just going on I don't know what, so sorry in advance if this is way off base.

  
Stephen's thirtieth is looming, sooner than he'd like. He tries to call Liz when the realisation really hits, although they haven't had a proper conversation in months. Her voice mail with Davie burbling on in the background makes him smile and brings on an attack of conscience so sharp he has to hang up more than once.

In the end he leaves her some nonsense message, gets one back later telling him he'll always be younger than his big sister and not to be a stranger. So it's okay, but it's not forgiveness. It doesn't mean she wants him around with how bad he is, that they need to see him looking like he's diseased.

He hasn't touched the coin since he took it though. He ain't under the impression that makes him a better person, he just thinks _Ah shit, you gotta give that back, you gotta make some of these moves_ but it's too late. Like every other time, he's already focused on the glistening tip of the syringe.

 

It started off social, don't everything. Cigarettes, drinking, weed...hard drugs are just the natural progression. Logic was looking at him weird and he'd thought, _Cover's blown if you don't._ Which was bullshit. Logic's a fool with no idea. Trouble is, he's rubbing off on Stephen. Grifting from Evidence is a terrible decision and it's no wonder he gets caught with his pants down.

The one that comes to go over the error of his ways with a soda is Sloane. It figures. He's been watching him for a while. He rolls the cold can over his neck, and the sensation wakes him up a little. Shit, that was stupid. He could've scored out on the street by now.

“Gotta clean up, Steve. Brass is onto you.”

“I know, I know.”

“No, you really don't.”

Their eyes clash, spark off each other. Guess who comes off worse.

“I could help you, son.”

“Oh, you could get them to send me home?” He has no intention of heading there, though. No stash. He'd rather stop off at the park, get some. It might mean 'basing but he's past the point of caring.

“You can go if you want. Door's open. But don't expect to have a job tomorrow.”

He gets up, then hesitates. This is what he made it through college for. It meant everything to him.

“You aren't dead to them yet.” Sloane says. “Why don't you sit down and listen?”

 

The worst part of the deal is he has to keep on working Logic, even though he assures his bosses time and time again someone dealing out of his mom's trailer isn't exactly at the top of the chain.

“Yo beanpole, you after this bitch again?” The little freak smirks, shaking the bag at him. “First bang's on the house.”

“You don't got a house, Tyler.” He says, as he snatches it.

Sloane's gonna be disappointed. Probably not surprised. Next morning his hands are shaking so bad he can hardly dial the guy's number. He can't even tell him where he is, has to walk to somewhere he recognises anything to get picked up. When the car stops, he opens his eyes blearily on low-rise apartments.

“Is this your place?”

“Yes. Get out.”

He comes but he's nervous. He's heard about this play, someone in a more powerful position pretending they'll save you, like an angel, and then dangling what you want in front of your nose when you most want it. Often in exchange for a sexual favour.

Once up there he lights a smoke without permission, experiments with body language by pushing himself off the wall he leaned against automatically. “By the way, I'm not _doing_ anythin' for you.”

Sloane just looks at him, blank. Purposely blank, perhaps.

Stephen takes a deep breath. “Sucking your cock.” He makes plain.

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm going back to work, okay?”

He murmurs, “Yeah,” and handwaves that. He shoulda known; Sloane don't look like no angel he's ever seen. He'll find out later from the bible they disguise themselves sometimes but in this moment, his relief doesn't last long, evaporating when he discovers the door is locked. He beats at it, without any of the demonically-possessed energy he had last night. He tries the windows, but they're stuck. The mania's drained out of him and he's not gonna try and break the glass.

Sloane comes back to find him sitting passively at the table, eating breadsticks he found in the cupboard.

“Hey, I'm gonna be gaining weight, you don't let me get my exercise.”

Gil pulls up another chair, exasperated. “That's the idea, Stephen.”

 

Maybe a week later he's woken from deeply unpleasant dreams by loud banging, opens the door to his own scabby apartment. It's hard to believe he's gonna be raised out of all that somehow but you just gotta believe it's out of your hands, apparently.

He holds up fingers, to show how many days he's been in the crash. Gil pats his shoulder on the way in. He brought beer, which is nice. Stephen doesn't even think about offering people shit except for cigarettes.

“You got a family?” He's asked at some point. “You see them?”

He nods, then shakes his head. It's too painful to talk about Liz and Davie, seeing as how he's effectively removed himself from their lives.

“I'm thirty next month.” He says, jumping off nothing.

“Good for you. Made it this far, huh?”

“Mmm.”

“You're doing well. I want you to stay on top of things, you hear me?”

“Yes sir.” He says, keeping it inferior, which is starting to become unnecessary.

 

He's depressive and all he wants is isolation, so NA fucking sucks, the first couple of times. He only manages to stand up infront of everyone with Gil's hand on his back. Public speaking is, for him, accompanied by that feeling of like, reaching in your pocket for your wallet and finding it gone.

People are still sympathetic after the session, probably because he's new, or his story's familiar. The dark, sad-looking chick makes eyes at him. Something about her almost reminds him of his sister, except she's so much frailer.

“My name's Claire.” She breaks the ice, shyly. “You can um, have my number if you want support from someone inside the program, or something. Not a sponsor.”

She's nice but she's not really sincere about this. He soon figures that out when he's snorting off her hand in a parked car and yeah, not really his kink, although he goes with it. He only sees her at meetings from then on. He's not seeing anyone else either. Sex and meth didn't go together for him before Claire, however if he can give up one, he can give up the other.

 

He begins to get the pleasure back from other things, gradually. He forgot he was good at this, the look fools give him when they're being busted because they thought he was cool. There's some that get mad and tell him he'll never shake it off. Which, whatever. He doesn't have to take their shit seriously any more.

One day he'll bring in someone big enough for Gil and whoever else to lift the restrictions on his life again. A no call no show didn't used to carry much of a consequence. He did that before and Cami would cover for him, he'd repay the favour. Now it's going to be assumed he's bailed on his second chance and there won't be any more paychecks coming his way after that.

Yet there are some upsides to having a sponsor on your ass all the time. At least he gets to discuss his progress over pizza. Food's good again, he eats till his stomach's full and still can't stop.

“So you accepted you have no control.”

His assent is a belch around the straw. “And I know what's wrong with me. I hurt people, I stole from my sister, I did some really selfish shit.”

“Things you did to fuel your addiction. But you're off the strong stuff.”

Stephen nods, tries not to wipe his nose. “Right, no shooting up. No smoking.”

“That's great. Now you want anything else before you start eating the tablecover?”

“Nah.” He allows himself a grin. “Gonna burst.”

 

The morning dawns when he's been completely clean eighteen days. It's not special for any other reason. He's just awaiting some joyous sense of recovery that maybe will never come.

He sits down on the couch, moving the coin he retrieved from the bottom of a drawer over and under his knuckles. He thought about putting it in the mail box but it wouldn't be right. He has to face them at some point, he has to give it back. Do what he can to repair the damage. But he's not ready yet.

He's zoned out as his phone rings, and he picks it up without thinking. “Holder.”

“Hey, it's me.”

He jumps, dislodging the coin onto the floor, almost drops the phone before calmness, _serenity_ , descends.

“Been a while, Liz. You're still my favourite sister, though.”

She snorts, but her blunt way of talking grows warmer for him. “I'm your only sister, idiot.”

There's a long pause where he can't speak. Damn, this is awkward.

“So, um, happy birthday.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” He'd almost managed to forget. Secretly he's pleased she remembered.

“Davie's been asking about you. He thinks you're hiding from us. I do too.”

He closes his eyes, having such a clear memory of his nephew's that night. The kid's big, innocent ones above the covers, staring when he crept out.

“No, it's just work and stuff, you know.” _I'm keeping clean_ , he wants to tell her, though she won't believe it.

“Well, we were wondering if you could come round. Be just us from seven on. I can get a cake from the store. We'll eat it all if you don't turn up.”

He smiles. “I'll try. I mean I might be on a late, but I'll see.” He should have known better than to make promises at rock-bottom, and he knows better than to make them now. “And thanks again.”

“That's all right. Bye for now, Stephen.”

Wow. That didn't sound quite so final as previous times she's hung up without saying she loves him.

 

They say the first month's the worst, so he wants something to mark its passing. He's had tats before, but this one's different.

He can't see the needle that etches the cross between his shoulder blades. His fingers curl under the edge of the fake-leather bench as he listens to the gun buzz, grimacing as it goes over the bone.

He takes off the taped cellophane with his back to the mirror and cranes his neck, figures he can't go back with that on him. He doesn't want to. Something saved him, call it Jesus even if he's not going to keep on praying. He has to respect that somehow, along with remembering that once upon a time, God was a sicko to him.

Still, things are starting to come his way. The Lieutenant says he's done good work with Gil, there's a conversation about transferring to city police. They'll check up how he is in three months, then six.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! One day I'll write some fluff. I also would've liked to include Holder's previous female co-worker as more than a name-check but as her appearance was really brief I wasn't sure if she was an ex-partner or just in Undercover with him.
> 
> Title taken from/ part of last paragraph inspired by Tricky's Passion of the Christ.


End file.
